Chapter 6 #3
“Eleven kids and probably,” she pauses, thinking, “seventeen parents are expected to come.”
It’s a lot of people, but these are relatively easy foods to make. There’s only one snag. “Nat, can I use your oven? Is it working right now?”
“Yeah, that’d be totally fine.”
Though, if it gives me trouble––which it always has––I might have to start over, which would waste a lot of time.
Natalie tilts her head to the side. “We made lasagna last week, and it was mostly, definitely cooked all the way through. But the stove is completely fine.”
That inspires very little confidence. “I’m staying at the B&B, so I could probably just make everything there. I’d just need to ask the owner if I can use her kitchen, but––”
“You can make them here,” Dominic interjects. “I’ve got a huge kitchen, and we have a limited menu. It’s mostly fried food. You can make the stuff today or tomorrow morning and leave it in the big fridge until the party.”
“Are you sure?” I ask Dominic at the same time Camilla asks me.
Dominic nods with a bright smile. “Yeah, no problem at all.”
“And obviously, I’ll pay you for your time,” Camilla adds.
I have other ideas, though. “How about instead of payment, you teach me some witchcraft 101? I’m realizing that my great-grandmother might’ve been a kitchen witch, and I’m curious to see if I have any talent in that area.”
“Wow, really?” she asks, intrigued. “I’d love to.”
“At the very least, I want to have a better understanding of my roots, you know?”
“Absolutely. We could always use more members.”
I show Camilla my great-grandmother’s journal, and she quickly confirms that she was indeed a kitchen witch. She even opens her grimoire to show me some of the most basic kitchen spells she learned when she was trying to determine her discipline.
“I’m a green witch, which is close enough in practice to kitchen witchcraft that I kept trying in the kitchen and couldn’t figure out why I was failing miserably.
But just because you manipulate food that came from a plant doesn’t mean you have any business trying to prepare a meal with it.
” She chuckles softly, and I admire her candidness.
It’s clear that her past struggles to figure out what kind of witch she is aren’t clouded with shame. She’s fond of the journey that led her to plant witchery. Envy hits me so hard in the gut that I almost bend at the waist.
It feels like this is coming out of left field––this desire to suddenly dabble in the dark arts.
But ever since Natalie helped me realize that the reason Nonna Penny was able to live here in the first place is because of the magic in her blood, there’s been a flicker of curiosity about my ancestors that’s growing into a wild flame.
I’m not about to quit my day job and join the coven full-time––if they’d even let me––but I do want to explore it. It’d be nice to have something that I’m naturally good at, that I’m meant to be good at, and eager to practice in order to get better.
“Here, I’m sending you some screenshots.” Camilla says. They’re all from her grimoire. “Consider it homework. When you’re cooking, try them out. See how you feel, if you sense a pull to a deeper layer of your process in preparing food, and let me know what shows up for you.”
“Wow, thank you so much.” I don’t know much about witches, but I know their grimoires are private, sacred journals they carry with them at all times, and the fact that Camilla is so open to sharing hers with me means a lot.
She texts me a list of food allergies and how many guests will need to be accommodated, and I work on putting a shopping list together based on the recipes I’ll be using.
The party is at one o’clock tomorrow afternoon, and will run until four, so I decide to prepare the food in the bar kitchen in the morning, and drop off the food around noon.
Once I add up the proper quantities of each ingredient I’ll need, I drive down to the main square and park in front of Local Harvest, Mapletown’s only grocery store.
I’ve been here many times in the past and have always been pleasantly surprised by the selection, despite the small size of the store.
Dominic is waiting outside without a coat when I return to the bar.
He doesn’t even look cold. I assume it’s a zombie thing, since it’s only twenty-two degrees out, but who knows.
“Look at all these goodies.” His grin is lopsided, and his eyes are sparkling amid the dreary gray sky. My heart squeezes just looking at him.
Somehow, he’s able to get five bags in one hand, and six in the other, leaving me nothing to carry inside. I urge him to let me carry something, but he ignores me.
Natalie breezes into the kitchen while we’re putting things in the walk-in fridge and lets Dominic know her shift is over. “Are you guys free tonight?”
Dominic and I exchange a confused look.
“Both of us?” I ask.
“Yeah, why don’t you both come over for dinner tonight? Winston is making a giant charcuterie board, and we got banana cream pie from the bakery for dessert.”
It’s not like I had any other plans tonight, but if it’s just the two of us with Natalie and Winston, wouldn’t that make it a double date?
Or would Dominic and I be more like the third and fourth wheels?
Winston and I barely tolerate each other, but do he and Dominic get along?
That’s a whole lot of Winston for one night. “Is anyone else coming?”
“Nope, just you two.”
“I’d be honored,” Dominic replies. Then he gently nudges me with his elbow. “Come on, Linds. It’s just four friends having dinner together.”
My head snaps up at him. Could he tell I felt panicked? Am I that easy to read? Doubtful, since Natalie and I have been friends for decades, and she doesn’t seem to notice anything off with my mood. If anyone could read me that easily, it’s her.
They’re both staring at me expectantly, and I realize I haven’t said anything in a very long time. “Uh, sure. Sounds fun. I’ll just go back to my room and change first. What time?”
“How about seven?” Natalie asks.
“Great.”
Dominic takes the butter from my hand and says, “I’ll pick you up at six-fifty then.”
“Wait, why?”
“It’s silly for both of us to drive. Let’s carpool.”
The bar is right next to Natalie and Winston’s house.
It makes no sense for him to drive all the way down to the B&B, only to turn around in the direction from which he came, but he’s offering to do it, so he clearly wants to.
What reason could I have to decline his offer that wouldn’t give away my feelings…
wait, these are not feelings. At best, they’re inklings, little tendrils of objective attraction to a man who is both generous and insanely hot.
Anyone in my position would be on edge about it.
“Uh, okay,” I stammer, my mouth suddenly dry. “Sure.”
It’s just a ride and then dinner with friends. What could go wrong?